At the Corner of the Rue de Pontoise
by L'Ael-Inire
Summary: To be read as a sequel to my other story, Book Four: The Seine. Valjean has a request for Javert regarding his saving Marius the night of the barricade, and the state of secrecy in which is must remain. Oneshot, because Author's Notes have their own page.
1. Message from the Author

From the Author

This is meant as a sequel-type thing to my first story, _Book Four: The Seine. _That story can stand alone, but this one cannot and has to be read after _Book Four_. Otherwise, it won't make sense, because Javert is supposed to be dead at the point of the story in which this takes place. More comments on the story in my profile.

**Tiny Disclaimer:** The first section, under "VIII", is an excerpt from the novel _Les Misérable_s by Victor Hugo. I've put it there to discern where _my_ writing, which begins after "IX", is intended to go according to the story-line in the book.

(To recap, that's right around the time Marius is trying to find the man who's saved him from the barricade. He's decided that it was not in fact Monsieur Fauchelevant at the barricade but someone who looked like him, and he has hit a dead end in his main investigation. In the book, he cannot search any farther because the only other witness, that is Javert, is dead. But if Javert had not died, which he does not in this alternate realm of mine, he would be a vital tool by which Marius could discover the identity of the man who helped him.)

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**BIG SCARY OFFICIAL DISCLAIMER:** I don't own what I don't own, and what I own is just that, and if you esteem yourself to judge otherwise I'll come after you before you can send out your lawyer hound dogs on me.

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- L'Ael


	2. On the corner of the Rue de Pontoise

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Book Five

GRANDSON AND GRANDFATHER

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VIII

_The two men impossible to find _

_..."Whoever he was, that man was sublime. Do you realize, Monsieur, what he did? He plunged into the battle, picked me up, opened the sewer and then carried me for a league and a half through those appalling underground passages, bent double with a man on his back! Simply to save a dying man. He said to himself, 'There may be a chance for him, and so I must risk my life.' He risked it twenty times over, with every step he took! And the proof is that no sooner had we left the sewer than he was arrested. Oh, if all Cosette's money were mine."_

_ "It is yours," Jean Valjean interrupted._

_ "I would give it all," said Marius, "to find that man!"_

_ Jean Valjean was silent._

_

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_

IX

_At 9 o'clock at the corner of the Rue de Pontoise_

Jean Valjean entered the police station early the next morning. Approaching the duty sergeant, he said:

"I need to speak with Inspector Javert. Is he here?"

"Yes," answered the duty sergeant, taking notice of Valjean's direct use of the name. "May I ask involving what?"

"I'm afraid I shouldn't say."

"The inspector is very busy." Then with hesitance: "Is this a personal visit?"

"It is, but it's quite urgent."

"Very well. What name should I give him?"

"Fauchelevant."

The sergeant showed Valjean down the hall and into an office. Javert sat at the desk, wholly absorbed in his work and looking like he had not been exposed to a decent span of sleep for two nights or more. The hair on his forehead fell carelessly into his eyes, which were subdued and dismayed as he regarded his reading. His pen jolted in short bursts between lines and every now and then he halted as if he had reached a dead end, only to start up again with an expression of misgiving conquered by overriding determination.

"A Monsieur Fauchelevant for you, sir," announced the sergeant

"Who?" grunted Javert in aggravation and he looked up. The sergeant had left, and what remained was Jean Valjean. Javert stared at him blankly for a long time. Then steadily he looked back down, continuing to write with slower motions. His chest sunk as a small sigh was emitted through his nose. The air became silent, excluding the careful scratches of the quill, until finally Javert spoke.

"Well. What is it, then?"

"I need to speak with you."

"I believe that's evident."

"Is it?" Valjean asked, taken aback.

"You're doing so now. And I myself am not practiced in any other means of communication, so it's our best bet if you have something to say." The words flew out of his mouth in swift murmurs, with liberation and distraction, so that he might have been talking to himself. There was a chair to the side of the desk. Valjean closed the door behind him and hesitantly took a seat. Javert did not look up.

"Inspector," Valjean began, reverting naturally to addressing him by his official title. "I must request something from you."

"I will carry no more dead men to their uncles," Javert said without a beat.

"Funny you should say so, because it's regarding that dead man that I've come. He's alive, by the way."

At last Valjean's tone forced the officer to reluctantly lift his head and meet the other's gaze. As he did, his expression was unexpectedly resigned and professional, although his words had been spoken otherwise, and he met Valjean attentively. Valjean weighed his words with intention.

"Marius Pontmercy—"

"The boy," cut off Javert.

"Yes. Has he come in at all?"

"Here?"

"Yes."

"No."

Valjean released a sigh of relief. Javert was observing him carefully.

"I thought perhaps he had already..." He trailed off.

"Excuse my interrupting, but is that all?"

Valjean looked back up, then shook his head.

"No. If he does come in, which I believe he will..." He broke off and looked at Javert meaningfully. "He's trying to locate the man who brought him back." Javert did not react. "From the barricade." Still Javert said nothing. "Me."

"I'm aware," He at last drawled acidly.

"If he comes to you asking, what will you say?"

Javert snorted. Then he regained his composure and said with a slight smirk, "Why, the good Monsieur Fauchelevant, of course."

"You mustn't. You must not tell him it was me. Claim not to know."

"Pardon?"

"You mustn't tell him—"

"Why in God's name not?"

"He doesn't need to know."

Javert studied the older gentleman. His expression had shifted from weary civility, so that he now glared with mild suspicion but also appeared to be thinking. Then he asked, slowly and deliberately:

"What is this boy to you?"

Valjean aged a year in the moment it took him to answer.

"Nothing, but to someone I care for. Soon he will be my son-in-law."

"Ah," was all that Javert said. Valjean looked at him, his forehead tense.

"Please, Javert."

At that moment, the door was flung open and entered, as if by some ghostly representation of the two men's speech, Marius Pontmercy. Valjean stood in an instant and backed away from the chair. Marius did not immediately see him and instead walked directly to the desk. Presently the duty sergeant entered behind him, appearing flustered.

"I apologize, sir, he entered without permission."

Javert leaned back in his chair and stretched, then returned and lazily put his cheek in his hand.

"Well, he's here regardless, so let him join the party."

It was at this moment that Marius took notice of Valjean, who stood at the side of the room with his head down.

"Monsieur Fauchelevant? What are you doing here?"

Valjean looked up and smiled wryly.

"I was merely reporting something I witnessed earlier this morning, a group of boys destroying an elderly woman's fruit stand at the corner of the Rue de Pontoise. There were seven of them. You did get that, Inspector? That there were seven?"

Javert blinked, his eyes darting to Valjean then back to Marius.

"How may I assist you, Monsieur...?"

"Marius Pontmercy."

"Alright," he smirked, and in effect somewhat contradicted his earlier use of the title "monsieur".

Marius swiftly took a seat and looked into the eyes of the inspector, quite forgetting the inauspicious presence of Jean Valjean.

"Inspector Javert," he started breathily, "Investigation on my part has led me to the belief that you were on patrol the night of the revolt. That was the fourth, and you were in fact the only police on patrol in that area and during that time. I learned this from the man in charge of documentation here."

"That sounds correct."

"It has also come to my knowledge that during the early hours of the morning following, a policeman on patrol took part in returning me to my grandfather when I was discovered wounded and unconscious—This bit I learned from the driver of the carriage which carried the men. Sufficed to say, there was only one policeman out that night, and it could only have been you. Did you?"

"It rings a bell."

Marius forced himself to pause, inclining his head.

"I thank you."

"Put it out of mind—it was never done," Javert answered curtly.

Marius did, and proceeded almost instantly.

"I am further aware that there was another gentlemen who assisted you that night, am I correct in this information?"

"Why, you are."

"Who was this?"

"Well it would have been a lengthy walk without the fiacre, so if you're out shaking hands, the driver—"

"No, another man. He brought me back from the barricade. He helped you bring me inside the house."

"I can't say I recall any such man."

Marius appeared to be confused.

"Then it was you alone?"

Javert made a face of disgust, clearly not wanting responsibility for such heroism. He looked down and began to work, speaking casually.

"Ah yes, it strikes me there was another."  
Marius started.

"Who? What was his name, do you know it? Was he from the barricade?"

Slowly Javert raised his head. Valjean had remained in the shadow of the room beside Marius, his face masked by the darkness. However, the silohuette of his head was visible to turn ever so slightly in a nervous twitch of apprehension. Javert stared into Marius' fervent expression, his gaze not shifting, until an eternity had passed. Then he slowly shook his head.

"A stranger. A street thief. He found your body at the barricade, presuming it dead, and attempted to bring you back so to rob you. He was in the midst of doing so when I discovered him, and when we found you were alive he tried to pass it off as an act of chivalry."

Marius persisted.

"But why drag my entire body back when he could have stolen from me where he discovered me? No man would—"

"It's a shame to spoil your apparent naivety, monsieur, but there is indeed a black market monopoly on teeth, hair and, resigned to say, other tools of the person. I am sure you wouldn't like me to go further. It's nasty business."

Marius shuddered. Then, with a last weak effort:

"But the reports claimed he was arrested. They claimed you made the arrest."

"I did. Then he died—bullet wound to the central cavity. We have too little space in our prisons as is to take up any more of it with the bodies of dead men, if that is what your insinuating." His tone remained indifferent as he scrawled over the work in front of him, and in total he seemed entirely detached from what he said, as if reading aloud. Marius wilted, glancing down in defeat.

"I see," he said, sitting for a moment before standing with conviction. "Thank you, that was all." He turned, nodding to Valjean absentmindedly, and in his obsession left before he could consciously acknowledge that he had seen someone similar to Fauchelevant at the barricade, that Javert had been led from the cafe by this man to be shot as a spy, and leastly that he, still, possessed one of Javert's pistols. The door swung slowly closed behind Marius on its own accord. Javert had not looked up, nor had his perpetual writing ceased.

"Thank you," Valjean's hushed gratitude came after a silence. "That was all in my case, as well."

"I beg you, if you have any other wishes or concerns, Monsieur Fauchelevant, to voice them now and spare yourself another trip," Javert said without looking up.

Valjean gave a tired grimace resembling a smile, expressing both his age and what good humor he had remaining in his years of grief. He picked up his hat and motioned to go.

"No, that is all." Then as a thought apparently came to him: "Except..." Abruptly he turned down and regarded Javert thoughtfully. "Well," he continued in a voice barely audible and directed mostly towards himself in any case. "You seem well."

Javert's head shot up and his look was terrible. Before he could utter a word and before Valjean could retreat, the door was again thrust roughly open.

"For the life of Caesar, what now?" Javert cried, pounding his quill down onto the table and standing up. In the doorway stood a pair of lower ranking officers. They were gripping a thin and dirty boy by the arms, no older than seventeen, who didn't struggle but looked around fearfully.

"Sir," said the first officer, "We were directed to come to you by ten o'clock for the boy's case determination."

"Case?" Valjean repeated vaguely, regarding the boy. He stopped walking and turned to look at Javert. "What case?"

"The boy was working in a factory mill for three months under a name and identity not belonging to him," recited the other sergeant methodically and officially.

"Hold your tongue, that's official information," Javert growled.

"My apologies, sir," the sergeant said sheepishly.

Valjean only stared at Javert.

"Surely, he won't be imprisoned. What harm could that have done?"

"It is not about the harm," sighed Javert, bending down to finish out the lines of his papers, "It's about the law. He's guilty of false pretenses and the forging of multiple signatures. He lied on legal federal documents, claiming to be—" He shifted through the paperwork and read off a name.

"That's my father!" the boy broke in furiously, struggling weakly against the arms that refrained him. "He's been away for a year! My mother's been ill in bed, and we needed an income. I worked small jobs for weeks but it wasn't enough for medicine. And Madame Granger threatened to put us out—She did!"

"Not that it's any of your business," finished Javert to Valjean, appearing not to hear the angry youth but merely regarding him through his eyelashes as he replaced his quill and stacked his papers. He handed them off to one of the younger officers, who read over them and, with a strange expression, nodded respectfully. He and the other then took the fighting boy from the room.

After a moment of consideration Jean Valjean followed them out. He approached one of the officers.

"Excuse me. What is the boy's bail cost?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How much will the bail fee for the lad come to? I'd like to pay for his release."

"His release?" the officer repeated stupidly. Valjean turned again into the office of Javert instead and addressed him directly.

"Inspector, how much will the bail cost be for that boy? He does not deserve to be in a jail cell for any amount of time, and I would like to pay for him to leave."

Javert met Valjean's offended gaze dead-on but said not a word. Presently the officer who had not been able to answer Valjean came back into the office doorway, seeming to have finally understood the previous question.

"There will be no bail, Monsieur; The young man's case has been eradicated."

Valjean turned.

"Eradicated?"

"Yes, Monsieur," said the officer, and he left.

Valjean paused, then turned back to Javert, who had taken to his desk chair again and sat rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"He's to be let go?'

"Apparently."

"And without fee? No conditions?"

"He's lost his job, obviously."

Valjean paused. "And you ordered for it?"

"It is under my jurisdiction, yes, to prosecute or otherwise conduct the outcomes of minor infringements," he replied irritatedly. Valjean could only stare in marvel. Javert continued, the sarcasm in his voice thick. "I apologize if the way by which I dictate my work is not to your agreement." His voice was hostile but also present was a tone bearing the semblance of something questioning, ambiguous and in any case barely distinguishable, and which Valjean could not figure. He merely shook his head.

"Quite the contrary."

Javert glanced quickly up, saw that Valjean was gazing at him with disbelief, and turned his head down again.

"If you've no more complaints of children and their destruction of fruit carts, I am very preoccuied."

Valjean said nothing, but continued deliberating the inspector. Then with a miniscule movement he turned his head curiously upwards, as if something had dawned on him. As an infant beholds the new face of a stranger, mouth cracked and doe eyes glinting in their fascination with the being opposite from them, so did Valjean look at Javert as he said:

"No. There is nothing else."

"You know the way out, then."

"Yes. Thank you, again," he said vaguely. Gradually dawned on his face a look of mild suprise met with amusement, all draped with subtle but sincere delight. It was hidden well, and presently he put on his hat and nodded once to Javert. "Good afternoon, Inspector," he said, then exited the office, leaving Javert writing at his desk and distractedly shaking his head as he mouthed what perhaps was "Fauchelevant" with baffled resignation.

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End file.
